At this table, I’ve stared at the blankness of my mind for too long.
The longing of my skin has numbed and the countenances of strangers
have come in place of who should be here.
There is only the sound is of the poem, the piano, and the string whispering to me.
I have taken the deepest part of you and slung it out against pavement.
I have hammered and chiseled until there was nothing left,
until the cancer of my world fled.
I am here.
I am here and there is nothing for it.
but then you speak to me.